A New Path
by Breaker334
Summary: MoS fic with small bits of Smallville: Clark Kent loses his adoptive parents at a young age. Confused, scared, and unsure of himself, he must survive life without guidance while discovering his own moral code and figuring out how to deal with whatever obstacles are thrown at him. Clarkx?. T for swearing/violence, rating might go up later. Multi-genre.
1. Preface

I've always been enamored with Superman; I mean, who isn't thrilled at the idea of a man who can lift buildings? A man who is bulletproof? A man with heat vision, x-ray vision, and super-speed? A man who can _fly_. From an early age, an iconic figure like Superman has always been something to strive for; the impossibility of what he does is something to gawk at, but it's the selfless pursuit of justice and truth that keeps him firmly rooted in our hearts over 75 years after his conception. There are many ultra-powerful beings depicted in the comics, but none can truly claim the fame and influence of Clark Kent's superhero persona.

However, Superman's heroism and infallible inner moral compass did not develop on their own; the values he cherishes were instilled in him by his adoptive parents, the Kents. While it is easy to ignore the origins of a superhero and focus on his daring exploits, we often forget that our moral code is established by our parents and society itself. Clark Kent only became the man he is because he was molded into that man; what if he had been raised by an incensed Lex Luthor? Or a power hungry Lionel Luther? Imagine how different his attitude would be if his feelings of anguish and rage—which surface quite often when you're forced to portray a bumbling, clumsy fool throughout your childhood to protect yourself—had been nurtured and not repressed or coached through. All it takes is someone guiding them in a different direction.

I'm not interested in Superman's daring exploits in Metropolis, and this story—however long it may be, although I will admit that I will try my best to deliver chapters of decent length and superior quality (you're always free to review my work, I appreciate constructive criticism immensely)—most likely will not address them for a long time, if it does at all.

I'm interested in Superman's upbringing, and the consequences of a simple change in guidance. I posed the question before: What if Clark Kent wasn't raised from his discovery in the Kent Farm until adulthood by the Kents? What if something interrupted this path at a crucial stage in Clark's life?

This will be an unorthodox tale, and will take a vastly different path than traditional Superman stories. I don't know whether there will be suggestive adult themes—I've never been particularly good at that riffraff—but I _do_ know that there will be occasional swear words, some OCs, and a different take on your favorite childhood hero. I'm mostly taking MoS events, coupling it with some Smallville elements (perhaps characters), then adding in my special stuff.

**Summary: **Clark Kent loses his adoptive parents at a young age. Confused, scared, and unsure of himself, he must survive life without proper parental guidance while discovering his own moral code and figuring out how to deal with whatever obstacles are thrown at him. (the summary sucks, deal with it).

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Superman, or any version of him, whether it be movie, comic, or random sketch on a subway; likewise, I do not own Smallville or any of its characters. Seriously. This is fanfiction. Lighten up a bit.

**Legend:**

"blah" – speech

'blah' – thoughts

oOo – flashback

-x- – scene change

**(A/N) **– author's note

Update: First chapter will be out soon! Hang tight with me, my brother and his friend are in town for a couple of weeks and I rarely see them, so I'll be dividing my time between him and working on the story. I'm hoping for at least a weekly update, but in all honesty I'll probably just update when I find the inspiration and the time to do so. Enjoy your friends and family while you can!

-DJ


	2. Chapter One

Well, here we go. This chapter is going to see Clark immediately after the death of his parents, the details of which will be explained later. Beyond that, you'll have to wait and see.

* * *

**-Monday, Smallville Junior High-**

The brilliant sun shone down upon the gentle, rolling hills of Kansas, almost as if promising a day filled with cheer. And indeed, it did, save for a lonely soul that trudged up the front steps of Smallville Junior High. Brown hair, surreal blue eyes, and a weary face greeted the entrance hall of the old establishment, and for a second the hall went silent.

Clark Kent just stood there, exhaustion evident in his eyes and demeanor; he slouched over, wishing he could just rewind time, but he couldn't. The only way he could save himself from falling into a never-ending spiral of depression was to return to habit and take whatever slight comfort he could in the actions he was used to. Perhaps if he just acted like nothing happened two days ago then the world would right itself. His parents would still be alive, and he could run home and bury his face in his mother's warm, comforting embrace. His father's stern but kind face would greet him, silently promising him both discipline and love—in his father's own way, anyway.

Of course, that didn't work. He stood there, letting the door noisily slam shut behind him as his listless eyes surveyed the deathly silent hallway. It was as if a bomb went off; everyone was staring, _all of them staring_ at him, like he was a freak—not that they knew, though. The emotions in those eyes ran the gamut from pity to disgust to even _anger_. The idea that they held him responsible for what happened only served to make Clark's head dip even lower, his already slouched posture ducking even further.

What could he have done? What did he do? Why were they looking at him like this?

'They're just so mean. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this!' Clark thought. And indeed, how could he be responsible? Nonetheless, this didn't stop the whispers.

"He's here? Why did he come to school after…you know what?" one voice said.

"Look at the freak. Acting like nothing happened," another voice whispered.

"He probably did it. I bet he did that and doesn't feel bad at all," a boy said, disgust lacing his voice. Clark knew _that_ voice. It was the voice of one of his more vocal tormentors, a boy whose mere presence often made Clark bristle with anger. Pete Ross was one of those kids that seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed one day and stayed that way. Clark couldn't understand why he went out of his way to bother him.

True, Clark was considered "the outcast" of the school. He did well in school, but never gave the appearance of having to work for his intelligence. That part wasn't really his fault—he had a really good memory, so much so that he remembered what he was taught with startling clarity. He never hung out with the other kids, opting instead to draw in a sketchbook that became his constant companion after his first "incident" with his strange abilities. The sketchbook became a way of expressing his thoughts in a way words would never be able to.

His social exile was self-imposed. His parents urged him to after he displayed just how alien he was in the barn one day. His mom and dad were arguing over something while his dad was trying to get under the tractor to fix something in it. Jonathan had been grunting and pushing, a sweaty sheen across his brow glistening in the sunlight when suddenly the tractor was rising. Steadily. The next thing Jonathan knew, the tractor was a good three feet off the ground, held in the hand of young Clark. Martha's hand flew to her face in a gasp, and it was then that the couple truly understood the burden they had taken upon themselves.

If Clark's strange…powers came to light, he would be in unimaginable danger. At best, he would be under a microscope. At worst, he would be a freak in a jar. Experimented upon by the government, or influenced by greedy individuals in whatever way they wanted. A true alien, one with powers beyond the realm of men, could be a force of good or evil.

The difference lay in his upbringing; the Kents knew that it would take strong discipline and coaching for Clark to use his powers responsibly, so they spent the next four years drilling manners and discipline into him. It would be worthless of him to be polite and reign in his anger in order to hide his abilities if Clark simply crushed everything he touched, so Jonathan and Martha also worked with him on controlling his strength.

However, despite all of this conditioning and emotional training, it was times like these that stressed Clark to the brink. The freckled face of that mean ginger would spew out insults and show disdain, driving Clark into a corner or alienating him from potential friends.

The time honored and most effective method of dealing with the bullies that plagued his every step in school was to simply ignore them and let their petty attempts at provoking him wash over his skin like droplets of rain. Today, however, it seemed like Pete was on a mission to make Clark's life unbearable. As Clark silently made the short trek to his teacher's room, Pete followed him, not even bothering to conceal his footsteps.

Clark reached the door and went to open it when his face suddenly met the door, his cheek pressed flat against the glass. Pete snickered behind him, too engrossed in his twisted pleasure to notice that Clark was completely fine while there was a small dent in the oak door.

Taking his chance, Clark slipped into the room and found his seat. The inane chatter of his classmates lazily floated through the air like lost mosquitoes, buzzing in and around his ears. Rather loudly, in fact, now that Clark realized it. He chose to ignore the noise and focus on the lesson. Today, predictably, was something easy.

"So, class, we have 7 and 12. What do we get when we add them together?"

"Nineteen," the class chorused.

"What about when we multiply them?" the teacher asked. It was a little ambitious, asking the fledgling third graders to multiply them together, but the class was soon dutifully working at the task.

"Eighty-four," a small voice said from the back. Everyone in the room turned to look at the origin.

Clark sheepishly ducked his head, a little embarrassed and immediately regretting his eagerness. He felt like a worm under a microscope, carefully examined and observed by his pseudo-scientist classmates.

"That's correct," Miss Patterson said softly. She seemed to be gentler than ever with how she addressed Clark; normally, she was sympathetic with his less-than-stellar treatment at school by his peers, but now, after the accident, she seemed to be treating him like a handicapped kitten. Clark appreciated the thoughtfulness but what he _really_ wanted was for the world to keep spinning and for his classmates and the teachers at the school to treat him like normal—that is, ignore his existence. It worked so far.

As the day continued, Clark became progressively more bored and soon found himself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

_It was a warm summer day. Clark found himself bouncing in Jonathan's lap as he clapped his hands and cried out in glee. His father had finally agreed to take the hyperactive four-year-old on a ride on the tractor. The dull, faded green machine hummed boisterously as Jonathan maneuvered it out of the barn and into the fields._

_Clark loved the farm. The cornstalks bobbed in the gentle breeze, moving to and fro as if dancing to an unheard beat. Clark couldn't help but gasp at the majesty of it all._

"_One of these days I'll let you help out around the farm," Jonathan said. "It's hard work, maintaining a farm, but it's clean, honest work, and I know you'll love it."_

_Clark just gazed at his father with awe. A hero—a true hero—in Clark's eyes was his father. His father, who went out every single day and baled the hay, tended the field, fed the cows. The sheer amount of work that Jonathan accomplished on a daily basis was lost on Clark, but Clark at least could understand that his father worked hard for his sake. _

_Clark turned his thoughtful gaze upon the seemingly endless fields of corn. One day, this farm would be his. He would keep it running and do all of the chores his father did, and his father would be proud of him. If there was anything that Clark decided that day, it was that he wanted to make his father proud. _

* * *

"Clark? Clark?"

The boy mentioned slowly blinked his eyes, fighting off the urge to forget the insistent other's voice and go back to sleep. Clark rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, raised his head, and froze. The teacher seemed to sense something was wrong and hastily asked, "Clark? Are you alright? Clark?"

Clark was frozen in place, his hands gripping the sides of his cramped desk forcefully. He wanted to believe what he was seeing, but he couldn't. His kind teacher's skinny body seemed to be flickering; one moment the creamy skin was visible, the next he was staring at her ribcage. Then, he was gawking at her cardiovascular system, and watching in awe as he witnessed her heart beating rhythmically. His vision continued to flicker and he began hyperventilating. His mother had been the one to comfort him when his powers developed or acted up, but she wasn't here. All he wanted was to hear her comforting voice, but all he heard were the muttered insults of his classmates.

Splinters fell to the floor as Clark's hand continued to increase their pressure on the desk, the wood becoming crushed and warped by Clark's abnormal strength. The teacher's eyes bulged at the indents left in the wood while Clark's head whipped back and forth, trying to make sense of what he saw.

After a minute of this silent episode, Clark shoved his chair back and bolted towards the door, one hand shaking wildly in front of his wonky eyes. As he fled down the hallways, his frantic footfalls echoed across the corridor. Finally laying his eyes upon a janitor's closet, he quickly opened the door, shimmied inside, and closed it just as quick. Clark sat there, breathing in deeply, while his vision flickered.

Soon after, Clark could hear the sounds of his classmates and teacher running down the hallway. His teacher jimmied the doorknob but found it locked, so she switched tactics and began to coo softly, hoping to help Clark and coax him out of the closet.

"Clark, honey, what's wrong?" Miss Patterson asked gently.

"It hurts and I can see everything and gosh I don't know what to do!" his frantic calls came. Clark tucked his knees in and wrapped his arms around them, gently rocking back and forth to calm himself. When the door began to shake violently he screeched loudly in protest. His vision began to turn red.

Twin beams of red, surging energy shot out from his red, dazzling eyes and raced towards the door. The hot rays sizzled as the doorknob began to heat up, and the teacher outside squawked in surprise as the doorknob rapidly became too hot to handle. Clark calmed down slightly when he heard the door stop rattling but remained on guard.

"Clark?" the teacher whispered.

"Yeah?" he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I want you to imagine my voice as an island. Can you imagine that? It's a little island in the ocean."

Clark shifted around. "Yeah."

"Good. Now, I want you to travel towards my voice. Can you see the island? Focus on the island and forget everything else. Just travel towards my voice."

Clark didn't reply, but he _did_ follow his teacher's instructions. Miraculously, his vision stopped flickering and settled on a normal perspective. He remained seated for a few minutes before finally finding the courage to open the door.

When he did, he was greeted with twenty-eight pairs of wide open eyes, staring in disbelief and confusion at what had transpired. Clark couldn't help but feel embarrassed at the attention and shifted his gaze towards the floor, not daring to meet the eyes of his thoroughly scared classmates.

Nothing more was said, but that had been enough drama for one day. The teacher gathered Clark in her arms and held him there, murmuring sweet nothings and rubbing her hand in circles on his trembling back. She knew that this simple gesture spoke volumes, but it wasn't enough for Clark. It would never be enough. Never again.

* * *

And there we go! First chapter done. Please leave a review, and if you do, please make sure that it is constructive criticism and not just telling me how bad it is. I'm a fledgling writer, so take that into mind!

Also, I understand if it might seem slow, but bear in mind that the story can't _immediately _shift into hyper-drive. There will be a timeskip next chapter, and the beginning of Clark's...let's say, "downward spiral." Until next time!

-DJ


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